


promise to as best we can

by middyblue (daisyblaine)



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Canon Compliant, Coitus Interruptus, Communication, Domestic Fluff, Episode: s07e07 In-Laws, Established Relationship, Family, Heteronormativity, In-Laws, M/M, Married Life, POV David Rose, Pet Names, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:41:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29279379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisyblaine/pseuds/middyblue
Summary: It was great when Mr. and Mrs. Brewer offered to come stay with David and Patrick for a few days to help them move into the house, but now it's been a week and there's no sign of them leaving. David doesn't know how much more of this he can take.
Relationships: Clint Brewer & David Rose, Clint Brewer & Patrick Brewer, Marcy Brewer & David Rose, Marcy Brewer & Patrick Brewer, Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Stevie Budd & David Rose
Comments: 46
Kudos: 282
Collections: Schitt's Creek Season 7





	promise to as best we can

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SCSeason7](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCSeason7) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> 7x07 - In-Laws - Extended Visit
> 
> Patrick and David appreciated it so much when Marcy and Clint decided to come for a couple days to help with the move. But they keep extending their stay, and it's been a week now, and David and Patrick are getting restless. The hot water keeps running out before David can finish his shower, choosing a TV show to watch at night has become an exercise in extreme patience, and there's no privacy anywhere! 
> 
> Any rating welcome. Privacy doesn't have to mean *privacy,* but it can!  
> **  
> Thanks for the prompt! The title comes from the song Love You Like a Table from the musical Waitress.

“David, hon, can you come here a sec?” 

David shuts his eyes and takes a deep, cleansing breath. 

“Be right there, Mrs. Brewer!” he calls. “I have to go,” he tells Stevie over the phone. 

“Monster-in-law?” Stevie says knowingly. 

“She’s not a monster,” he hisses. “She’s just a very nice woman who happens to be in my kitchen all the fucking time now.” 

“What I want to know is why she keeps asking _you_ how to use your oven.” 

“Clearly she doesn’t know me as well as we thought she did.” 

“Maybe she just needs to stay with you _longer_. Maybe _that’s_ what this is all about.” 

“It’s been a _week_ since they helped us move and they’re _still here!_ ” 

“She just wants to be roomies with her brand new son-in-law!” 

“I will kill you.” 

“I don’t think that will help the relationship. She feels like someone who frowns on murder, even if you have been married to her son for four months today.” 

“I will kill you dead and no jury would convict me,” David says, glaring out the little window that overlooks the driveway. Patrick's car is still gone but the Brewers' station wagon is where it's been all week, taking up half the driveway. 

“Go show your mother-in-law how to use the preheat button for the fifth time. Maybe she'll _make_ you a four-month anniversary cookie.” 

“Stop it with the monthiversary stuff. How do you even remember that? And, also, that’s the worst part! She keeps baking things!” 

“Oh, no, how terrible,” Stevie says flatly. He can _hear_ her eyeroll. 

“It will be terrible when we can’t even move around the kitchen with all the baked goods piled everywhere,” he says gloomily. “And when _I_ say that?” 

“Your life is so hard. Do you want me to start a charity in your honor? We could get Alexis to promote it. You could have galas: The David Rose Suffers From Too Much Kindness Gala.” 

“Well, that’s a mouthful, for one.” 

“It’s a work in progress.” 

He hangs up on Stevie and drops his head back as he exhales another deep breath. He _likes_ the Brewers, is the thing. They're very nice people. It's just that David isn't naturally nice, and it's been a long fucking week of pretending that he is. 

It would’ve helped if Patrick had let him take today’s shift at the store, but he’d insisted that David have the day off since David had taken Patrick’s solo shift earlier in the week with the intention of making sure that Patrick had plenty of time with his parents while they’re here. 

He'd made the offer their first night in the cottage, huddled with Patrick under a pile of blankets because the box labeled DUVET+LINENS ended up having towels in it instead, and the box labeled TOWELS had rugs, and on and on and they were both so tired and it had even felt rustic in a charming sort of way to sleep under the motley of blankets they were able to dig out instead. 

Patrick had said softly in the strange new quiet of the house, "I'm so glad they can see the life we're building," and it had seemed wrong to have him stuck at the store while they're _here_ , so David had offered to take the next day's shift in loving magnanimity. They'd both been too exhausted for celebratory homeowner sex, but they necked for a bit under the covers in their new bedroom in their new house and it had felt like the start of something good, something right; finally, David got it right. 

But it's been a _week_ now with no sign that they ever plan on leaving. _No good deed_ , he thinks gloomily, then shakes it off. It's not their fault; it's just that, after a week of playing co-host, David's spent the day running around the house after them alone and his nerves are frayed to shit. 

He finds Mrs. Brewer in the kitchen, her fingers hovering over buttons on the stove but not pressing any of them. There are plates of cookies, brownies, and muffins all over the counters, and what looks like every mixing bowl in the Greater Elms soaking in the sink. 

“What’s up?” he asks. He’s pretty sure he could walk through this entire interaction with his eyes closed at this point. _Cheerful and helpful_ , he reminds himself. _You like her. You love Patrick. Be cheerful and helpful._

“I can’t remember how we did the preheat last time around,” she says worriedly. 

“Let me see.” 

He goes to stand next to her and presses _Bake_ , then looks at her expectantly when the temperature option comes up. 

“Oh, 375, please.” 

“Got it.” He hits the + button until the number goes up to 375, then presses _Start_. The oven turns on. 

“Ah, look at that,” she says, just like every other fucking time. 

“What are you making?” he asks politely instead. 

“Oh, just some bread,” she says, waving a hand at the stand mixer that she’d given them for a wedding present. He tried not to take it as a hint, but she’d unpacked it and started using it their second day here, asking David to help with something or other each time. 

“Yum,” David says, trying to look as excited as he did the first time she baked for them. He thinks he fails; Stevie’s always telling him that his fake-excited face looks more freaked out than anything else. 

“You’ll like it,” she assures him, patting his arm. “We baked most of our bread while Patrick was growing up. It’s his _favorite_ ,” she adds with a wink. 

“I’m sure it’s wonderful.” 

“Hey, David?” Mr. Brewer calls from across the house. 

“Yeah?” he shouts back. Thank god the cottage isn’t any bigger; he wouldn’t have any voice left. 

“Got a question for you!” 

“I should go,” he tells Mrs. Brewer with a fake smile. 

“Sure, honey. The bread will be ready in about an hour, if you want to see how to know whether it’s done.” 

“Mm, can’t wait.” 

He crosses the house through the hallway with the beaming faces of his friends and family and takes another deep breath before finding Mr. Brewer in the downstairs bathroom, kneeling in front of the open cabinet door under the sink. 

“Mr. Brewer. How can I help you?” 

“Oh, call me Clint, son.” He will not be doing that. Patrick and Stevie both still call his parents Mr. and Mrs. Rose and he is not going to step over this boundary of propriety before they do. “Do you have a toilet bowl cleaner with bleach in it?” 

Jesus fucking Christ. Swiffering and vacuuming the dust over the past few days after they finished moving in was one thing, but Patrick’s father cleaning the _toilet_ is a whole other level of no. 

“Mr. Brewer, you really don’t have to keep cleaning.” 

“It’s no bother. I’m happy to help. Gives me something to do,” he says with a laugh. 

What even is David supposed to do in this situation? Patrick would know, but he’s still at work and hasn’t responded to the last text David sent him about bringing home some hand cream because he’s run out. 

“Um. Well. If you don’t see it under the sink there, then we probably don’t have it.” 

“Hm.” 

“Do you need anything else?” David asks, still trying to be cheerful and pleasant despite his father-in-law still digging around in their bathroom cabinet. “I found the channel guide for the TV and I hear there are brownies in the kitchen.” 

“Great, yeah. Thank you, David.” 

“My pleasure.” 

He hears the storm door open, then the front door, and despite himself a thrill runs through him. It’s been a week since they moved in and the sound of Patrick coming home (from a vendor trip, from the grocery store, from a morning hike) hasn’t gotten old yet. He hurries over to the entryway to meet him and maybe even get a minute alone together without Patrick’s parents hovering. 

Patrick’s kicking off his shoes into their spot in the hall closet and dropping his keys in the tray on the table by the door, and the smile when he looks up and sees David is a balm after the drudgery of this day. 

David wraps his arms around Patrick’s wonderful shoulders and kisses him with the pent-up emotion of eight hours of missing his new husband with only a few texts throughout the day to get him by. 

“Hi, honey,” he says happily when they part, his hands still on Patrick’s shoulders, Patrick’s hands still around his waist. Patrick grins and kisses him again. 

“Mm, hi. How was your day?” 

“Dull.” 

“Today was your one day off and it was ‘dull?’” 

“There was a lot of running around,” he says lowly, flicking his eyes to the doorway to make sure they’re not overheard. Patrick winces, his hands soothingly rubbing up and down David’s back. 

“Sorry, baby.” 

“How much longer —” 

“Patrick!” Mrs. Brewer says happily, holding out her arms. Patrick steps away from David to give her a hug hello and David stands awkwardly in the corner of the tight not-quite-a-foyer space. 

“Back from the salt mines,” Mr. Brewer says, joining them all. 

“Yeah, pretty much,” Patrick says, and he looks so happy to see his parents, to have them here and involved in his life, that David can’t help but feel guilty for the surly attitude that’s been building inside him all afternoon. “Did you three have a good day?” 

“Wonderful,” Mrs. Brewer says, beaming. “We’ve got some brownies and a coffee cake cooling in the kitchen.” 

“Come on, you don’t need to bake for us. You’re our guests,” Patrick insists, his arm around her shoulders, every inch the adoring son. 

“Oh, don’t be silly.” 

“He’s right, Mrs. Brewer. You really don’t need to bake for us.” 

“You two,” she says fondly. “It’s the least I can do while you’re both so busy.” 

“Speaking of which, how is the store?” he asks Patrick, trying not to give in to the bitterness at how hard it is to have a conversation with him with his parents always around. 

“Still standing,” Patrick says, sticking one hand in his pocket up to the wrist. “Darlene came by again.” 

“God, again? Is she _huffing_ the bath salts?” 

“She said something about a bridal shower, but I’ll be sure to let her know that you asked.” 

David rolls his eyes and Patrick’s parents look between them like they missed the joke. 

Mrs. Brewer checks her watch and then gives Mr. Brewer a meaningful look. 

“I should go see how the bread is doing,” she says slowly and loudly. Mr. Brewer nods. 

“You’re making bread?” Patrick asks, his face lighting up. 

Okay, maybe if David were a better person, he’d ask Mrs. Brewer for the recipe, maybe even help her make a batch to get some hands-on practice. The most advanced baking he’s ever done, though, is helping Stevie with those cookies that come from a tube. They’d tried to add weed to the pre-made dough and it had _not_ been good. Despite her heavy hints, he strongly doubts that Mrs. Brewer could actually use any of his kind of help. 

“David and I wanted it to be ready for when you got home from your day at work!” David tries to keep his grimace to a minimum. “It’ll be done in less than an hour,” she adds. She cups Patrick’s chin before letting go and basically swoops off in a puff of heteronormative flour. 

“Gonna go check on the golf score,” Mr. Brewer says. “My app says Mickelson’s up.” He claps a hand on Patrick’s shoulder and then disappears himself. Great. Just like every other day this week, their television is being taken over for sports. It's not like David needs to watch a specific show tonight, but he'd like to at least have the _option_. 

“What were you saying?” Patrick asks once they’re alone again underneath the photos of their perma-smiling loved ones. 

“Nothing. I don’t remember.” 

“Okay.” Patrick pecks a kiss to the side of his neck. “Here’s your hand cream, by the way. I’m just going to get some juice from the kitchen and then I’ll meet you in our room for some alone time before dinner?” 

“Alone time,” David repeats, lifting his eyebrows, and takes the RA tote. Patrick blushes and grins and it’s so fucking adorable. His husband is _so fucking adorable_. He kisses Patrick’s cheek and squeezes his arm before they separate, feeling much better about the outlook of his evening with the promise of getting to spend some time alone with him. 

His optimism is for naught, though, because then he’s waiting in their room half-undressed and alone for half an hour, and Patrick never shows. It would be less sad if it were the first time this has happened this week. 

Stevie  
  
**Today** 6:02 PM I think I’ve lost my husband to my parents-in-law  
Lol  
David: I think I’ve lost my husband to my parents-in-law. Stevie: Lol

Useless. 

He pulls his sweater back on and makes his way back to the kitchen to find the three Brewers chatting happily at the kitchen table, munching on tortilla chips straight out of the bag and guacamole straight out of the tub. 

“Hi,” he says, squeezing Patrick’s shoulder. 

“Hey,” Patrick says, then frowns and looks at his phone. “Shoot, how long have I been sitting here? I’m so sorry, David.” 

“It’s fine. You’re all having a good time, so it’s fine.” 

“Come join us, David!” Mrs. Brewer says, waving a chip at him. 

_Sorry_ , Patrick mouths, and David rubs his shoulder. It must have been rough for him these past few years, watching David be close (or close-ish) with his family while he was so estranged from his, even if it was his own doing. He might be tired of sharing him, but David’s not going to stand in the way of their bonding, or whatever. 

“Is this okay?” he asks quietly. Patrick squeezes his hand and pushes out the chair next to him for David to sit in, and rubs his shoulder when he does. “What are we talking about?” 

“The summer that Patrick thought he was going to be a basketball player,” Mrs. Brewer says, beaming at him. 

“Oh, come on,” Patrick pleads, but he’s smiling. “David doesn’t need to hear this story.” 

“He was obsessed with practicing his drills and even had me set up a hoop in our driveway,” Mr. Brewer tells David, ignoring Patrick’s sigh. Patrick moves the chips and then the guacamole closer to David. “He and his friends would practice three-pointers for _hours_.” 

“And then his teammates all shot up and he didn’t even grow an inch,” Mrs. Brewer says fondly. 

“Okay, is it really necessary to add that detail?” 

“You tried your best to keep up anyway, sweetheart.” 

“The uniform is baggy shorts and a sleeveless top, right?” David asks. He scoops a heap of guacamole and pops it in his mouth as Patrick watches with a smile. 

“That’s right.” 

“Hm.” He tilts his head and considers it. On the one hand, ew, but on the other hand… Patrick’s ass. It could go either way. “I bet Elmdale has a team.” 

“No,” Patrick says, shaking his head. “I’m on the softball team and we’re busy with the store and soon we're going to have to start negotiating touch-ups to the house with Ronnie. I do not need another thing to do.” 

“They’re different seasons,” Mr. Brewer says. “Baseball’s in the spring; basketball’s in the winter. You could do both.” 

“Wow,” David says. “Now you just need a summer and a fall sport and you’ve got a good chance at that varsity jacket, Sporty Spice.” 

Patrick laughs and David grins, pleased. 

“Volleyball’s good for summer,” Mrs. Brewer says helpfully. "I used to play in college." 

“I could be supportive of beach volleyball.” 

“I burn in the sun,” Patrick says pitifully. 

“We’ll get a big umbrella and a ton of sunscreen. Is there even a beach around here?” 

“There’s a lake with a beach somewhere in the county,” Mrs. Brewer says. “I saw it on the town website.” 

“There’s a _town website_?” 

“Yeah, Ray runs it,” Patrick says. “I think there are still pages up that I put together, but I’m a little afraid to go looking. I’m far from an expert coder, which is why we are going to hire someone professional to do it for the store.” 

“Well, I’m sure the website is delightful,” David says, only a little sarcastic. Patrick narrows his eyes like he knows. “What are we having for dinner, by the way?” 

“We’ve got some flank steak,” Patrick suggests. “We can grill it. Some potatoes, too, if you want.” 

“Oh, I’ll help you with those, David,” Mrs. Brewer says. 

“Sure,” David says, forcing a smile. He’s all for potatoes — they’re one of his favorite food groups — but he doesn’t love the implication that he’s useless in the kitchen. Patrick nudges his knee against David’s and raises his eyebrows when David looks over. “It’ll be fun,” he adds reluctantly. 

“What kind of potatoes do you want, sweetheart?” she asks Patrick. 

“David?” 

“Um. Regular? The ones we usually make.” 

“He means roasted,” Patrick explains to his confused-looking mother. Whatever; Patrick knows what he means, and his opinion is the only one that matters. 

Because she exists to make his life more difficult, Stevie disagrees vehemently when he tells her this, hiding in the bathroom ten minutes later. He cracks the window and tries not to think about how strong the industrial cleaner smell is. 

Stevie  
  
**Today** 6:37 PM His opinion is NOT the only one that matters!!!!!!  
They’re his PARENTS.  
I know that  
He cares a SHIT LOAD what they think  
He loves you  
But they're his PARENTS  
I KNOW THAT  
He cares what they think. You should care what they think.  
I'm not being RUDE to them!!!!  
Lol really?  
Shut up.  
No but  
Are you okay?  
Spiffing  
Spiffing  
??????????  
Should I call an ambulance?  
Should I call Ted?  
YOU PROMISED YOU WOULDN'T MENTION THAT EVER AGAIN  
Whatever. Text me if you have a real problem.  
My real problem is that I love Patrick. And they’re good people. And they won’t leave.  
Yeah, that’s not a real problem. A real problem is a document on my desktop labelled RolandBookIdea.exe  
.exe????  
Exactly  
Well don’t fucking click on that  
Duh  
Is there such a thing as a computer exterminator?  
Well, there are computer mice, so it follows that there would be an exterminator  
This conversation is both entirely unhelpful and also very successfully distracting me from real work  
Glad to be of assistance  
Can you please help me with my problem now?  
I thought we decided that it wasn’t a problem  
Stevie: They're his PARENTS. David: I know that. Stevie: He cares a SHIT LOAD what they think. He loves you, but they're his PARENTS. David: I KNOW THAT. Stevie: He cares what they think. You should care what they think. David: I’m not being RUDE to them!!!! Stevie: Lol really? David: Shut up. Stevie: No but, are you okay? David: Spiffing. Stevie: Spiffing????????? Should I call an ambulance? Should I call Ted? David: YOU PROMISED YOU WOULDN’T MENTION THAT EVER AGAIN. Stevie: Whatever. Text me if you have a real problem. David: My real problem is that I love Patrick. And they’re good people. And they won’t leave. Stevie: Yeah, that’s not a real problem. A real problem is a document on my desktop labelled RolandBookIdea.exe. David: .exe???? Stevie: Exactly. David: Well don't fucking click on that. Stevie: Duh. Is there such a thing as a computer exterminator? David: Well, there are computer mice, so it follows that there would be an exterminator. Stevie: This conversation is both entirely unhelpful and also very successfully distracting me from real work. David: Glad to be of assistance. Can you please help me with my problem now? Stevie: I thought we decided that it wasn’t a problem. David: *middle finger emoji*

Someone knocks on the door and David damn near drops his phone into the toilet. 

“Just a sec!” he calls. 

“It’s me,” Patrick says through the door. 

David opens the door to see Patrick standing there, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. 

“You disappeared,” Patrick says, that concerned expression on his face. “Are you okay?” 

“Fine,” David says quickly. 

“Is the guacamole bad?” Patrick asks lowly, the concerned look deepening. Jesus fucking Christ. 

“ _No_.” 

“Okay, well, then, what’s up?” 

“I was just texting Stevie and lost track of time,” David says. “It was a mistake.” 

“I don’t want to keep apologizing for wanting to spend time with my parents,” Patrick says, his voice still pitched low to avoid any eavesdropping. 

“No one’s asking you to!” 

“You are, by hiding out in the bathroom to avoid talking to them!” 

“Okay, Patrick,” he says soothingly, rubbing Patrick’s shoulders, “I am not avoiding anybody. Stevie was just telling me that Roland saved something really sketchy to the desktop at the motel and we were trying to figure out whether or not to try opening it.” 

“Definitely not,” Patrick says immediately, furrowing his brow. 

“That’s what we decided.” 

“Okay.” 

“It’s fine, honey.” 

Patrick winces. 

“What?” 

“No, nothing. It's just — my mom calls me that sometimes. It's fine.” 

“Oh my god.” 

David sweeps past him out of the bathroom, unable to deal, and returns to the kitchen to join the Brewers around the guacamole again. 

He is fully capable of being a good son-in-law. He just needs to try a little harder. 

“David!” Mrs. Brewer says happily. “Ready to help me with the potatoes?” 

“Yes, absolutely.” She beams at him and squeezes his arm. Right, see? He can do this. 

Patrick comes up behind him a second later and his shoulders are tense, a telltale sign that he's upset and bottling it up. David wants to hug him and kiss the frown off his face and just sit with him and talk through the mess in David's head, but he can't do that with the Brewers here. _Later_ , he tells himself. They'll talk later. It'll be fine. 

“Dad, want to come check on the grill? I’m not sure there’s enough gas in the tank.” 

“Sure thing, son,” Mr. Brewer says, and follows Patrick out to the back porch where the grill he’d given them as a wedding present is stored, leaving David and Mrs. Brewer alone in the kitchen. 

“Now, David, if we’re doing roasted potatoes there’s no need to peel them,” Mrs. Brewer says, lugging a mesh bag of little yellow potatoes onto the countertop. “But we will need to wash them and cut them up into pieces.” 

“I’m sure I can help with that.” 

Mrs. Brewer beams and places two cutting boards onto the counter. 

“You're a star. Why don’t you rinse about half the bag while I set us up, and then we’ll get chopping.” 

He does as he’s told and carefully separates them out between them as close to equal groups as he can. Mrs. Brewer hands him a knife and he watches her cut the first potato, in half-inch slices and then each round slice in quarters. 

He balances a potato on the cutting board and carefully presses the knife down, feeling the weight of her gaze on him. 

He and Patrick sometimes cooked together at the apartment, even though there wasn’t really room for both of them in that tiny kitchen. It lent itself to very handsy food prep and as often as not they’d end up making out or more against the closest flat surface with dinner half-made on the counter. 

Anyway. He’s not completely useless in the kitchen, but he’s got this paranoid feeling that all of a sudden he’s forgotten how to do it right. There’s resistance at first as he presses through the skin but then it cuts through smoothly and he’s got a sliver of potato. Okay. Good. 

“So, David,” Mrs. Brewer says. “How are things?” 

“Things are good, Mrs. Brewer.” 

“Oh, Marcy, please.” 

“Mm. How are things with you?” 

“Oh, easy as pie. I’m sure Patrick told you that Clint and I retired last year.” 

“He did, yes.” 

“So Clint’s got his golf team and I’ve got my friends and we keep pretty busy.” 

“Mm.” 

“We’re thinking of getting a dog.” 

“A dog,” he repeats. “You had one when Patrick was growing up, right? He mentioned it.” 

“We did when he was young, yes! A little beagle. Devil of a thing,” she says, but her voice is fond. “Barked at anything and everything. But Patrick just adored him.” 

“Rocco, he said its name was.” 

“That’s right! Rocco, never Rocky. No idea how he came up with that name, but as soon as he did that was it; that was the dog’s name. Patrick was about eight years old, the cutest thing at that age. They’d play fetch for _hours_.” 

“I bet,” David says, smiling as he pictures a little chubby-cheeked Patrick playing around with a dog. He’s said before that he wishes he’d had a sibling growing up; maybe the dog filled some of that void. 

“Are you two thinking of getting a dog?” 

“Oh, no,” David says quickly, forcing a laugh. “Absolutely not. Can you imagine?” 

“I think you’d be a good dog dad, David. You take such good care of people.” 

“That’s very generous of you.” 

Mrs. Brewer’s made about twice as much headway with her potatoes as he has. Goddamn it; he can’t even impress her with his potato-cutting skills. 

“Patrick said you weren’t planning on having children,” she says, and his spine stiffens. 

“That’s correct.” 

“I’m not judging,” she says, flicking a smile at him. “I had one and that was enough for me. I was just thinking aloud.” 

“Okay.” 

“I mean it,” she says, and reaches over to roll some of David’s waiting uncut potatoes onto her cutting board. “I fully support all of your decisions. You make him happy, David. That’s all that matters to me.” 

“But you want grandchildren.” 

She doesn’t answer and he nods to himself. 

He’s not used to having to explain relationship decisions to in-laws but it fully fits with the week’s theme of having the Brewers involved in nearly every single aspect of his and Patrick’s life. 

It’s one thing to have this discussion with Patrick, and another thing entirely to have to talk about it with someone who’s had thirty-plus years of other ideas of what Patrick’s future would look like. He doesn't know how to have this conversation with her. 

They finish cutting the potatoes in silence and then Mrs. Brewer walks him through tossing the potatoes in oil and salt, pepper, and rosemary, and folds them up in tinfoil. They take that and the packet of marinated steak out to the back porch, where the early spring wind is blowing around the budding branches of the trees that line the property. 

“Looking good?” she asks their husbands, who have clearly been chatting while David was inside cooking with her, their arms crossed in duplicate thoughtful poses. Mr. Brewer opens the grill and Patrick helps her fork the steak onto the cooking grate, followed by the whole tinfoiled potato shebang. The three of them have a comfortable rhythm together and while David's glad that Patrick can have this with his family again, he can't help but worry a little, too. 

He wonders what’s been going on in Patrick's head over the past few days, if he’s been rethinking the shape of what their life together will look like in light of what his parents expect for him. Patrick’s never been someone easily swayed by others’ opinions in general, but he had been so afraid that their opinion of him would change if he told them that he and David were together. 

He watches Patrick animatedly helping his parents arrange their dinner on the grill and feels in his gut a twist of insecurity and resentment towards the Brewers for tarnishing what was supposed to be the happiest time of his life, and hates himself for it. Why can’t he just be happy for Patrick to have them here? 

Why _are_ they still here? Is this what his marriage is going to be like, putting on a happy face and tiptoeing around the Brewers while they come to stay for weeks at a time? 

“I’m just going to go inside for a sec,” David says and the three Brewers look up in sync, which is a lot to handle right now. Yes, inside is a good idea. He could use space to process how there suddenly seem to be four people in his marriage. 

Maybe he can try to make peace with it before all of this balloons into something too big to squash down, before it's too much for him to be able to protect Patrick from it. 

Safe in the quiet privacy of their bedroom he has a decent panic attack, sitting on the edge of the bed, his arms wrapped around himself as he tries to breathe. 

What if he can't keep this up and the Brewers decide that he’s not good enough? 

What if they try to convince Patrick of it? 

What if he sees David differently through his parents’ eyes and he realizes that he actually does want something different, someone better? 

What if Patrick regrets marrying him? 

Part of him knows that that’s not what’s happening, that Patrick loves him entirely. 

It’s a whole different thing, though, to try to hold onto that and have to fight back the surge of sliming insecurity, the voice insisting that he just needs to try harder, that if he’s having such a hard time with this then maybe he’s not good enough as he is. 

What if he’s not? 

Fuck. _Fuck_. 

He’d thought he’d been clear; he’d thought _they’d_ been clear, and on the same page. 

Patrick had seemed so sure and David had believed him and they’d gotten _married_ with the promise that they wanted the same things, that they wanted that future with each other, but David knows how family can fuck with a person, even if it’s out of love. 

Patrick loves him, it’s a fact, but Patrick also loves his parents and they theoretically love David but not in the way that Patrick and Stevie and Alexis love him; they don’t know him at his worst, at his most annoying, most selfish self. 

What if they decide that he’s not good enough? 

He’s a ridiculous person, he knows, who seems to vacillate between not giving a single fuck what people think about him and caring way too much. The secret is that he’s always cared too much, and learned how to close the door on it when he needed to pretend that the caring wasn’t there, but he can’t really do that with the Brewers. 

Like Stevie said, their opinion matters to Patrick, and Patrick’s opinion matters to David, and he’s been piling mental furniture in a barrier in front of that door but the stack keeps collapsing, threatening to let the door creak open with all the vulnerable ugliness waiting for him on the other side. 

The only person he wants to talk to right now is Patrick, who always seems to find a way to loosen David’s lungs when they tighten in an anxiety spiral, but he can’t talk to him about this. He can’t ruin this for Patrick; he loves him too much. 

He pulls out his phone to text Stevie instead but he can’t marshal the words together to make her understand, so he just sits there with his phone clutched in his hands until he can get himself back under control, until he can breathe and convince his brain that he’s not actually dying. 

It takes a while. 

Patrick texts him _Dinner’s ready_ after some time — he’s not sure; he lost track — and he checks his reflection to make sure that he doesn’t look like he’s just had an extended panic attack while hiding out in the master bedroom. 

“Hey,” Patrick says when David rejoins them in the kitchen. “Everything okay?” 

David’s really starting to resent that question, especially when he can’t be honest in his response. 

“Fine, just needed a minute.” Patrick’s eyes don’t lose their concern and he rubs David’s back, which helps a little. “Dinner’s ready?” 

“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Brewer says, bustling behind him. She hands him a serving spoon that someone had given them for a wedding present and makes a pointed scooping motion at the potatoes that are still in their tinfoil. David tries not to grimace and obediently scoops some potatoes onto the plate that she hands him. 

When they’ve all served their dinner, they sit down around the kitchen table again. It had been a gift from Jake, of all people, and David wishes he’d gotten a tablecloth or something to protect it from food. 

Patrick had suggested a plastic-coated tablecloth, which David had immediately and mercilessly struck down, and Patrick had told him that whatever they got would have food dropped on it anyway so it wasn’t worth spending a lot of money on something too nice to actually use. They still haven’t agreed on one, so David’s — _their_ bare table is now being exposed to bits of potato and steak sauce. 

“So do you guys have to head back this weekend?” Patrick asks, spearing a potato. “We don’t want to keep you if you have things to do back home.” It’s been a week and Patrick’s tried to hint at this several times already, but David loves him for trying again anyway. 

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Brewer says. “We can stay as long as you want, sweetheart.” 

David gives Patrick an urging look; Patrick frowns back. David raises his eyebrows, _is that all you’ve got_ , and Patrick rolls his eyes. 

“We really appreciate how helpful you’ve been with the move,” Patrick tries again. “I think we’re pretty well settled in.” 

“Oh, it’s no bother. We’re happy to help you both with anything you want to include us in.” 

Oh, good god. 

“How is the golf, Mr. Brewer?” David asks, giving up. Patrick slumps in his seat until Mrs. Brewer elbows him and he sits up straight again. 

“Oh, great, David,” Mr. Brewer says. He pats his mouth with his napkin. “You know, they’re saying that Tiger might be back in the next open.” 

“After he cheated on Elin?” 

“Well, that scandal’s several years back.” 

“I guess,” David says, frowning. His sense of time is a little off; he knows it was pre-Schitt’s Creek, but the ten or so years before that when he was in New York have turned into a bit of a blur. 

“Golf is a summer sport,” Mrs. Brewer puts in. 

“I feel no need to play golf,” Patrick says with the weariness of a man who’s had this conversation many times before. 

“It would be great for making business contacts, honey.” 

“Yeah, I closed almost half my deals on the course,” Mr. Brewer says. 

“I just think it’s boring,” Patrick says, picking at a piece of potato. David nudges his foot against Patrick’s under the table, and Patrick looks up at him and smiles. There he is. 

“You don’t need to play golf,” David says reassuringly. 

“No, of course not, honey,” Mrs. Brewer says. “You do what makes you happy.” 

Patrick’s smirk immediately turns back to David, who flushes and gently kicks him. 

“So what’s the plan for tomorrow, team?” Mr. Brewer asks. 

“Well, the store’s closed for the day,” Patrick says, still looking at David like he’s waiting for his input. 

“I think we’ve already _done_ everything that I had in mind,” David says conversationally, forcing a smile. 

There are actually _several_ things that David would like to do tomorrow, but none of them involve Patrick’s parents. They’ve already gone out to lunch and out to the movies; they’ve done a walking tour of the town; they’ve gone to Elmdale for what might meagerly pass as a shopping trip. 

The Brewers have “helped out” at the store and two days ago they even tried to tag along on a vendor trip, although thankfully Patrick was able to talk them out of _that_ and saved the store’s professional relationship with Tracy and her bestselling fleece-lined wool mittens. 

He would _like_ to spend the day in bed with his new husband in their new home for the first fucking time since they moved in. He would _like_ to be sure of a hot shower in the morning. He would _like_ to be able to walk into the kitchen half-asleep in his pajamas without feeling self-conscious. He would _like_ to heckle the Real Housewives in his own living room while wine-drunk with Stevie. He would _like_ to be able to have vigorous and tender and over-emotional and as-gymnastic-as-they-can-manage and every other kind of sex with his new husband on his new kitchen table whenever they feel like it. 

He also just misses being with Patrick, which is dumb because Patrick’s knee is currently pressed to his under the table, but he misses being with him _alone_ , when it’s just them and they’re their truest selves, alone together. 

Maybe Patrick doesn’t see it that way. He is, after all, the better half of this relationship. Maybe he’s his truest self all of the time (most of the time); maybe this Patrick with his parents is the real Patrick. 

Before David can start spiralling off into uncanny valley territory, Mrs. Brewer seems to come up with an idea. 

“Why don’t we go hiking, honey? You mentioned that there was a good trail nearby, Rattlesnake something?” 

David goes a little lightheaded. 

“Yeah, Rattlesnake Point,” Patrick says tentatively, looking at him. David tries to shake his head subtly and Patrick's eyes do their sad pleading thing. “It’s a decent hike; I’ve done it a lot. How’s the weather looking?” 

“Oh, tip-top,” Mr. Brewer says, somewhat absurdly. “Sunny and fifties.” 

“Wow. Good for this time of year.” 

“Global warming,” Mrs. Brewer says with a laugh. “What can you do?” 

“I guess. David? Want to come?” Patrick asks, his tone hopeful. David’s not one hundred percent sure what his face is doing but he knows he’s not smiling. “David’s not really a hiker,” Patrick tells his parents. “Last time I had to bribe him with cheese.” 

“ _Last time_ you gave me jewelry,” David cuts in. “Are you planning a repeat performance?” 

Patrick’s face softens and he squeezes David’s arm. 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just thought it might be nice, all of us together.” 

“I… sure,” he gives in. So, fine. LIke everything else, his lovely, perfectly messy memory of their engagement spot will now involve Patrick’s parents. 

Whom he loves. He _does_. They’re sweet and they adore Patrick and they’re incredibly generous with David. 

He just wishes that he and Patrick could have one thing to themselves, that’s just theirs. _Honestly, what’s next? The Brewers audit our taxes?_ he thinks bitterly, then shame washes over him. 

They’re good people who love their son and Patrick is happy to have them here and David just needs to suck it up and stop being bitter about it. He needs to be the husband that Patrick deserves. 

“Wonderful,” Mrs. Brewer says, and her eyes squint in a smile the same way Patrick’s do. “What do you two think of the potatoes?” she asks Patrick and Mr. Brewer. 

“Very good,” Mr. Brewer says, and Patrick nods. 

Mrs. Brewer winks at David and says, “David’s a good chef.” 

He has to laugh. “I wouldn’t go that far.” 

“Yeah, we've had burnt pancakes for breakfast a few times,” Patrick says; he gives David a fond look and rubs his back. 

Mrs. Brewer’s eyes widen in shock and, okay, that’s unnecessary. 

“Okay, it had been a very long time since I’d made them and… and Patrick’s stove at the apartment was a legitimate fire hazard on its own.” 

“No, that’s true,” Patrick agrees. “The plastic dial would move but the metal piece underneath sometimes got stuck on high. More than once I accidentally set off the smoke detector.” 

“Well, we’ll just have to try a bunch of different recipes here,” Mrs. Brewer says bracingly. “Just to make sure that everything is ship-shape.” 

“Really, that’s not necessary,” David says quickly. 

“Yeah, we can handle it, Mom,” Patrick says. 

“It’s no trouble, sweetheart,” she insists, and her eyes turn a little glassy. “I just want to make sure you’re all set before we leave.” 

“Mom, we’re fine,” Patrick says gently. “You’ve taught me enough. David and I are both very capable people, and we have a fire extinguisher. We’re going to be fine.” 

“I know, honey,” she says, but her voice is watery. She smiles at both of them and David feels guilty all over again for resenting them. “I know that.” 

“We just hadn’t seen you in so long,” Mr. Brewer says, rubbing his hand over his mouth the way Patrick does when he’s fighting an uncomfortable emotion. 

David wonders what of his own parents Patrick sees in his face, and then shoves the thought aside. Best not to dwell on _that_. 

“We want to spend time with you while we can,” Mrs. Brewer says, squeezing Patrick’s hand. “ _Both_ of you.” 

Patrick’s mouth wobbles and David can’t say anything. 

“So, a hike tomorrow, then,” Patrick says with a shaky laugh. 

“That sounds wonderful, sweetheart.” 

For dessert they have the marble cheesecake brownies that Mrs. Brewer made this morning while David was guiltily in and out of the kitchen to refill his coffee, weighing how much he needed the caffeine against how little he wanted to get roped into helping her bake. 

It turns out that they’re really fucking good, which is annoying. He has a moment of bitter weakness when he briefly considers refusing to take a second piece. 

The Brewers have their evening decaf tea, still chatting around the table, until Mrs. Brewer gets up to do the dishes and Patrick refuses to let her. 

"Mom, you're our guest. Please let us do the dishes." 

"Are you sure?" she asks somewhat ruefully, which is valid, considering how full the sink is. 

"I'm sure," Patrick says firmly. "We'll see you tomorrow, okay? I love you." 

"Okay, if you're sure. Sleep well, honey." She blows Patrick and then David a kiss and Mr. Brewer follows her out of the kitchen. 

"I'll do these if you want to go to bed," Patrick says, rolling up his sleeves. David sighs, knowing how this ends. 

"You wash, I'll dry?" 

Patrick beams and hands him the dish towel. 

The soft murmuring of the Brewers' voices drifts from the guest room but Patrick's shoulder bumps his and he glances up at their reflections in the window above the sink, Patrick's smile almost as big as it was on their wedding day. He's beautiful, happy like this, the ends of his sleeves splotched wet with soapy water, and David smiles helplessly back at him. 

"Sugar pie, honey bunch," Patrick starts to sing as he soaps up a plate. "You know that I love you...." David shakes his head. He has no idea what about doing the dishes makes Patrick want to sing oldies, but it nearly always ends up in him smiling, so he can't really complain too much, although he can try to put a stop to the most egregiously cheesy love songs. 

"No." 

"No?" Patrick says, grinning, his eyes sparkling. He hands David the plate. 

"And no to whatever else you're thinking right now that's causing that face." 

"L is for the way you look at me...." 

"Oh my god," David mutters. He takes another dripping wet dish from Patrick and starts wiping it down. 

"O is for the only one I see...." 

"You are the absolute worst." 

"V is very very extraordinary...." 

"You know your parents can probably hear you, right?" 

"E is even more than anyone that you adore can," Patrick croons right at David's face. David shakes his head but a smile breaks through. "Love is all that I can give to you...." 

"I would appreciate some Margiela." 

"Love is more than just a game for two...." _Clearly_ , David thinks, as Patrick washes four sets of dishes. "Two in love can make it; take my heart and please don't break it. Love was made for me and you." 

"That was very sweet, thank you." 

Patrick turns off the water and dries his hands on David's towel, humming the other verses, and then takes David's hands to dance him around the kitchen in some sort of makeshift waltz. It's dorky and romantic and heartrendingly wonderful to be danced around by his husband who's so happy he can't not sing love songs. 

"You are so fucking weird," David says, his fond tone betraying him. Patrick just beams and spins them around the table and David is so so grateful that he's his. 

"Patrick?" Mr. Brewer asks out of nowhere. David trips over Patrick's feet and swears. "Oh, sorry, son. Didn't mean to interrupt." 

"What's up?" Patrick asks, letting go of David's hands, and the soft moment they'd had is gone. 

"Wondered if you wanted to take a look at the window seal in the guest room while I'm thinking of it." 

"Is there a draft?" 

"Little bit. Nothing to worry about right now, but there's a gap in the seal that you might want to see for yourself so you know what to tell your contractor." 

"Sure. I'll be right there," Patrick says, his brow furrowed. "I'll meet you upstairs, okay, David?" 

"Mm," he says bitterly. Patrick goes off with his father, leaving David to wipe down the counters and turn off the lights. Not for the first time this week he misses the apartment, which was too small but its lack of rooms meant that they were together as they cleaned up and turned out the lights and locked the door. It was boring and stupidly domestic and he _misses_ it; he misses the little routines they had when it was just the two of them. He checks the deadbolt on the front door and then heads upstairs to get started on his nighttime routine alone. 

They’re still working out which house projects they want to get done first, but while he brushes his teeth he stares at the walls and contemplates the ethics of at least putting the Brewers to work while they’re here and getting the bathroom painted a color other than this weird seventies mauve. He fantasizes about redoing the bathroom entirely, getting double sinks so he and Patrick can both be in here at the same time. Maybe tomorrow he can start pitching the idea. 

The hike is tomorrow, though, he remembers with a sinking stomach. He's going to have to wear exercise clothes and walk up an entire mountain while still pretending to be a Brewer-friendly version of himself. He'll have to swallow all of the inevitable resentment when they're there at the spot where he'd pulled the stick out of Patrick's foot and especially at the top, where undoubtedly they'll want to stop and take pictures and recount the whole engagement story, the private center of his heart that's just his and Patrick's alone. 

He places the new tub of hand cream on its shelf and makes sure it’s facing forward, and repeats the process with each item in the vanity until it’s all neatly organized and he feels like he can breathe a little easier. 

Patrick finally joins him upstairs at the end of his routine as he’s applying his under-eye cream. David sees him in the mirror first, leaning against the door jamb with a small smile and his arms folded, watching David dab the cream under his right eye in practiced movements. 

“What?” David asks, crooking a smile at his reflection. Patrick shrugs and unfolds his arms. 

“I’m just,” he says, coming up behind David, his hands going to David’s hips, “really, really lucky.” David blushes. 

“You are,” he says anyway. “You have a husband who will have the skin of a thirty-year-old well into his sixties.” 

“Sure, that’s the only reason,” Patrick teases. He turns David by his hips so they’re face to face and takes the little pot of cream from him. “I’ll love you even if you don’t,” he adds softly, sincerely, and David loves him. 

He presses a gentle kiss to David’s lips and then carefully touches his ring finger to the cream, just like David taught him, and dabs it under David’s left eye. 

“Happy four-month anniversary, baby,” he murmurs. 

“We’re not doing monthiversaries,” David insists, but his voice is shaky. “There will be no declarative cookies and no singing telegrams.” 

Patrick’s face lights up and David rolls his eyes. 

“I promise,” Patrick says, though, and puts the eye cream down to kiss him again. “You’re done, Your Highness.” 

“Mm, I like that.” 

“Yeah?” Patrick says, smiling up at him happily, his broad hands going back to David’s hips. “You want to be royalty?” 

“Your mistake for thinking I’m not already royalty in this marriage.” 

Patrick laughs, kisses him, and murmurs, “Certainly, King David.” 

David laughs against his lips, kissing him again, loving the certain familiarity of his mouth, the way it still sparks desire up his spine and something else, too. 

“I love you,” he whispers. 

“God, so much.” 

Patrick runs his hands up the ridges of David’s spine, under his sweater, and slowly lifts it off, draping it carefully over the back of the chair set outside the bathroom. 

David’s vulnerable, bare, but here finally alone with Patrick he wants to be seen; he wants Patrick’s bare skin on his; he wants to feel the love in Patrick’s touch. 

Patrick’s hands come to cradle David’s face, warm and gentle, and he licks into David’s mouth as David backs him up to the bed. He’s essentially herding Patrick into sex but it’s been so long since they’ve been able to have anything more than a quickie and Patrick hums happily into the kiss. 

David undoes Patrick’s shirt buttons and pushes it off his shoulders, exposing pale skin and shifting muscle, and he grazes his fingers across Patrick’s chest, hungrily watching his eyelashes flutter. 

Patrick drops down onto the bed, pulling David down with him, and David loses himself to Patrick’s warm hands on his skin, the musk of the day on him, Patrick’s perfect mouth sucking the spot over his pulse point that never fails to make him gasp. It’s so, so good to have his body be known like this, to be loved like this. 

“Mm, Patrick,” David breathes, his hand cradling the back of Patrick’s head as Patrick lovingly works a hickey onto his neck. 

His mouth busy, Patrick’s hand drifts down into David’s Rick Owens pants, the bagginess of which he has expressed appreciation for in this context more than once, especially lately when all they really have the time and privacy for are handjobs. 

He works David in smooth, even pulls, just how David likes to start, and David grows hard under his touch, embarrassing little noises escaping his throat as Patrick sucks at his too-sensitive skin. 

David reaches down to undo Patrick’s belt buckle and Patrick kisses his way back up to David’s mouth, still stroking him, still overwhelming him, and David closes his hand around Patrick’s deliciously swelling cock and Patrick starts to breathe heavily against his cheek, so close David can feel the brush of his eyelashes, still not close enough. 

If this is going to be his only chance to be close with Patrick for the foreseeable future, he’s going to make the most of it. 

He pushes Patrick’s jeans down to the floor and kicks off his own pants, relishing how even after all this time Patrick’s eyes go wide and dark. 

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” Patrick says huskily, running a hand up David’s chest as he presses him back on the bed. David tugs him in for a kiss, bruising and a little sloppy but Patrick moans and grinds his hard length against David’s and it’s really fucking good. 

Even if everything else is off-kilter, this is still good. 

He hooks his leg around Patrick’s, his hips hitching forward in little helpless stutters against Patrick’s cock, the length hard and huge against his own, and slides his hand down the back of Patrick’s underwear to get a palmful of that fantastic ass. 

Patrick rocks his hips like he’s trying to get David’s fingers to brush his hole and their kisses get messier, Patrick’s hands up David’s chest to thumb at a nipple and on his face to coax his mouth open how Patrick wants it, kissing him, again and again and deeper. 

It’s perfect, it’s close, it’s Patrick wanting him so much his eyes go wild and he’s got an exertion flush up his chest and his hands his mouth his love on David’s skin is everything he’s needed. 

David presses a finger inside Patrick, delicious arousal pooling in his belly at his clenching heat; he sucks at Patrick’s saliva-slick lip and pries open his eyes to see Patrick looking back at him, his eyes big and dark and beautiful and his mouth swollen and reddened with stubble burn, and there’s a knock at the door and the door swings open and like out of a nightmare Mrs. Brewer is silhouetted against the hall light in her big-ass robe, asking, “Patrick, honey, do you have an extra — oh my god!” 

“ _Oh my god!_ ” 

“Oh my god, Mom!” 

Patrick pulls his hand out of David’s underwear but otherwise doesn’t move, still bent over David, shielding him from her view, and David squeezes his eyes shut like that’ll help and holds hands protectively under his chin like folding himself up as small as possible will maybe turn him invisible. 

Mrs. Brewer just saw him _fingering Patrick’s ass_. He can’t cope with this. 

“Mom, can you please just wait outside a sex — sec! Wait outside a sec? Please?” 

“Sure, of course, yes, outside,” she says wildly, and then it sounds like she finally leaves and shuts the door behind her. 

“Patrick,” David says tightly, his eyes still shut. 

“I know. I know, David, I’m sorry, I — I’ll be right back.” 

The mattress rises as Patrick gets up, leaving him cold, and David hears him pull his clothes back on and leave, shutting the door again behind himself, not even touching David’s arm in consolation before he goes. 

David lays there in horror as his erection softens, and then fumbles for his phone where he’d left it charging on the nightstand. 

Stevie  
  
**Today** 11:29 PM Oh my god  
?  
The worst thing that has ever happened to me  
The most horrific  
David: Oh my god. Stevie: ? David: The worst thing that has ever happened to me. The most horrific.

His phone rings with the image of Stevie’s face grimacing up at him and he answers, still feeling shaky and flushed hot with mortification. 

“What?” she demands immediately. “Are you okay?” 

“No, I am not okay! My mother-in-law just walked in on us having sex!” 

“Oh my god, David.” 

“ _I know!_ ” 

“No, I mean, I thought one of you was in the hospital or something.” 

“This is worse!” 

“David.” 

“I can’t do this anymore, Stevie.” 

“We need a signal for when it’s a real emergency, or else I’m going to have to start ignoring your urgent messages.” 

“ _Mrs. Brewer just walked in on us having sex_ ,” he says emphatically, his free hand gesturing wildly. 

“Like, in flagrante?” 

“My finger was _literally_ _in his ass._ ” 

“Okay, that's more information than I asked for. Why are you telling me this?” 

“Because you’re my best friend! Because I feel like I’m about to lose my goddamn mind!” 

She sighs. 

“Okay, none of that. No sighing. No, ‘Oh, David’s being over-dramatic again.’ I am _not_. This is a _normal reaction to the situation that I am in_.” 

“Oh my god, David. Fine. Why exactly are you about to lose your goddamn mind?” 

“Because they’re _always here_!” 

He gets up and starts pacing around the bed, his hand flying, and the words start pouring out of his mouth, everything horrible and bitter and petty that's been building for the last few days, the worst part of him finally breaking free. 

“They are _always here_ , Stevie. I have not had one goddamn minute of peace since we packed up the apartment. This is my new house with my new husband and I haven’t gotten to enjoy any of it! They’re _always fucking here_ and I can't fucking _breathe_. I must be being punished for that _fucking_ happy ending because I’m stuck in _fucking_ purgatory. Mr. Brewer’s always cleaning and Mrs. Brewer’s always baking and they're in my kitchen and my bathroom and my living room and they're involved in fucking _everything_ and they're not _leaving_ and I just want to tell them to _fuck off_. And do you know what the worst part is?” 

“I’m sure you’ll fucking tell me.” 

“They want to go on a hike tomorrow up to where we got engaged. And I have to go, because Patrick wants me to, but it’s — it’s not right. I don’t want to go with them, I don’t want them to go, I want them _gone_. I hate that they're still here. I want them to fucking _leave._ ” 

He turns on his heel to pace in the other direction and freezes. 

Patrick’s standing there in the doorway, his face in shadow against the light in the hallway. 

“Fuck. Stevie, I have to go.” He hangs up before she can respond and his mind races, playing it back; how much did Patrick hear? How awful did he sound just now? “Patrick —” 

Patrick holds up a hand, shakes his head, and comes into the room to go into the closet. 

“My mom was cold,” he says shortly. “I offered to get her blankets from the hall linen closet but she wanted to try one of the ones we have from the store. To support us.” 

“Patrick, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean….” 

“Come on, David,” Patrick says, and he sounds exhausted. “It's been a long week and we're both tired.” 

“Okay,” he whispers. 

Patrick tugs down one of the black and white blankets with the RA logo woven in and leaves without another word, without even looking at him. 

“Fuck,” he says to the empty room. His eyes well hot with tears and he blinks furiously against them as he wraps his arms around his bare torso, cold and exposed. 

Patrick just heard him say that he _hates his parents being here_. What the fuck is wrong with him? He's been trying so hard to not be this person and after all that he just threw it all in Patrick's face, the last person who deserves to be hit with the worst part of him. Four months into marriage, a week in their new house, and he’s already ruining everything. 

He always ruins everything. 

So that's it: he was only able to make it four months of being a good husband before showing Patrick just how much of a monster he is, how little he deserves this. He’d thought he had outrun that inevitability this time, but obviously it was just waiting to happen when it hurt the most. 

Tears dripping faster now, too fast for him to keep up with wiping them away — and he’s already wiped away the eye cream that Patrick so lovingly applied; he ruins _everything_ — he tugs his sweater back on, pulls his overnight bag out of the closet, and starts packing. 

It seems simple: Patrick's not going to want him in the same house with his parents, but he can’t ruin Patrick’s relationship with them, not with how terrified he was to lose it, how much it means to him to have it now. 

David just needs too much from Patrick. He’s _always_ needed too much; isn’t that the story of his life? But he loves Patrick more than he thought he could ever love another human being; it’s all-encompassing and incomprehensibly big and it’s physically painful to consider being the one to destroy Patrick’s happiness. 

So he packs pajamas, underwear, socks, an outfit for tomorrow, and an extra sweater, just in case. He adds his overnight toiletry kit, because he’ll have to redo the whole moisturization process. 

Stevie  
  
**Today** 11:48 PM I'm coming over  
?? Now?  
Yes. I'm staying the night  
Do I get a say in this?  
Please just  
I need to  
Ok  
David: I’m coming over. Stevie: ?? Now? David: Yes. I’m staying the night. Stevie: Do I get a say in this? David: Please just. I need to. Stevie: Ok.

It’s just for one night, for Patrick’s own good. Just to get David out of here, so they can take a breath. 

Patrick comes back to the bedroom as David’s putting his shoes on. 

“David…?” 

“I’m going to go stay with Stevie tonight,” David says. His throat is thick. 

“What? Why?” 

“Because I don’t think either of us wants me here right now.” 

“David,” Patrick says in his _come on now_ tone. David shakes his head, trying to contain the hurricane of emotion in his head, the barriers collapsed, love and resentment blown together. He tries to focus on the relevant one. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too.” Patrick furrows his forehead but accepts David’s quick kiss. “David, it’s our anniversary.” 

“ _Month_ iversary. And I told you that celebrating those was bad luck.” 

“David, come on.” 

“I know you love your parents. They’re good people; I didn’t mean.... I'm sorry I said that. I didn't mean it. I’ve just hit my limit. And I think… I think it’s for the best if we both get a little bit of a break.” 

“David.” Patrick’s voice breaks and, fuck, if he cries then David will cry and that was the opposite of what he’s trying to do here. He needs to get out of here, and he needs Patrick to be okay. 

He’ll be fine as long as Patrick is okay. 

“I’m going to stay with Stevie tonight, and I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Patrick whispers. His eyes fall shut and David sees a tear track down his cheek and he _loathes_ himself. 

He sniffs, an ugly snorting thing, and kisses Patrick because he can’t not. It’s a wet, gross kiss, with snot and tears between them, and Patrick kisses back desperately like it’s the last time. 

“Just for tonight,” David pleads, pressing their foreheads together. Patrick nods, and he feels it. 

“Okay,” Patrick says again, straightening his shoulders, trying to be strong; _oh, honey_. 

David goes to leave the bedroom, his heart breaking with every step, and as he gets a few steps away Patrick says, “Hey, David?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m sorry.” 

David shakes his head, and keeps shaking it as he turns around to look his husband in the eye, his resolve cracking at the wrecked look on Patrick’s face. 

“No. No, Patrick; they’re your parents. I mean, mine were around _constantly_ throughout the first three years of our relationship. It’s — it’s fair for them to be here. It’s _more_ than fair.” 

“Is it, though?” Patrick’s face is blotchy, his eyes red and shining. “What if I don’t care about what’s fair?” 

“Patrick.” 

“I care about _you_ , David,” Patrick says fiercely, gesturing at David’s chest. At David’s heart. “Fuck, you’re my _husband_.” 

“It’s our four-month anniversary,” David says, his voice breaking in the middle. He'd wanted so much for their marriage. He hadn't wanted this. 

Fresh tears fill Patrick’s eyes and David feels his mouth tremble and he only has to take one step forward, his arms lifting, for Patrick to envelop him in a tight hug, his wet face pressed to David’s neck. 

David buries his nose into the warm shoulder of Patrick’s t-shirt, his wonderful, strong shoulder capable of carrying David up mountains. He can feel Patrick’s heart beating, his lion’s heart full of love for David. Fuck, he can’t ruin this. 

“How can I fix this?” Patrick mumbles into his neck, still holding David in his arms, and David nearly sobs. Of course he asks; of course he tries to carry it all. 

“You don’t have to. It’s not — it’s me, not you.” 

“David.” Patrick pulls away just enough to wipe his face on his sleeve, ignoring David’s disapproving look. “We’re married.” 

“Right, and I’m not going to force you to endure my bad attitude when you just want to spend time with your parents. I’m — I tried, I _tried_ , but I can’t do it right now.” 

“I’m sorry my mom walked in on us. That was….” 

“Traumatizing.” 

“Yeah. But I’m sorry I didn’t realize how much it was affecting you, having them here for so long. David, I’m so sorry.” 

“Stop apologizing!” 

“I’m — fuck. I knew you were getting antsy and I know they’ve been here for longer than we expected but I was just… being selfish and I wanted my family here and I’m so fucking sorry that I didn’t see how it was hurting you.” 

A fresh wave of tears fills David’s eyes and he swallows. 

“So what now?” 

Patrick takes a deep breath and seems to find what he’d wanted to say, which is good, because David still feels… askew. Wrong. 

“We’re married.” 

“I know,” David says, looking down at his ring. 

“Which means that it’s not me or you, right? It’s us.” David makes a face and Patrick rolls his eyes a little. “It’s us against the problem, not you and me against each other.” 

“What the fuck does that mean?” 

“It means that we sit down and we talk about how to solve this,” Patrick says in his annoying look-how-reasonable-I-am voice. David doesn’t really want to walk all the way over to Stevie’s, though, so he sits on the edge of the bed and waits. 

Patrick sits next to him, at first so close that their arms press together because that’s just how they sit, now; he glances at David and moves away an inch. 

David hates it. 

“Can you tell me what about having them here makes you want to sleep somewhere else tonight?” Patrick asks, staring down at his hands clenching in his lap. “Is it because of my mom just now? Or is there more?” 

“Nothing, really.” 

“David, I think we have to be honest, here. I-I trust you. Not to hurt me. You have to trust that I can handle it.” 

“That’s a lot of trust,” David says quietly. Patrick’s mouth flickers into a smile, then goes back to serious. 

He thinks about standing up with him in front of their families, literal and extended, as Patrick sang his Mariah Carey vows in front of everyone on one of the best days of David’s entire life. 

He thinks about Patrick’s round brown eyes on him as David applied hand sanitizer to the bottom of his foot, and Patrick jumping onto his back, trusting David to carry him up the rest of the mountain. 

He thinks about Patrick nervously asking him to dinner, and the trust he had in their partnership to take that risk. 

He thinks about Patrick saving and framing their first receipt and trusting that David would understand what he was trying to say. 

He thinks about sitting in Patrick’s car after their dinner-turned-date, and the way Patrick’s eyes darted to his mouth, and David being the one to lean in and kiss him because he couldn’t not; he couldn’t bear going inside without having kissed him. 

He thinks about Patrick’s soft, earnest, _Thank you, David._

“I don’t want them going on our hike,” he says finally. “It’s stupid, but it feels like that’s the only thing left that’s ours. I was so excited to have a home with you, and a life with you, and I feel like we keep pushing that back and putting it off and I _like_ your parents, I do, but I don’t think I can keep living like this. I want _you_.” His voice breaks and Patrick looks at him with watery eyes and grabs his hand, holding it tightly. “I want you, Patrick. I want our life to start. I waited so long for you and you’re here but I’m still _waiting_.” His mouth wobbles a smile and Patrick clenches his hand tighter. “You know I’m not very good at being patient.” 

“I love you.” 

“I know, honey.” He can tell that Patrick’s trying to hold back a cringe and David just feels so _tired_. “I just feel like there are four people in our marriage right now and that’s a lot for me.” 

“I don’t want to tell them to leave,” Patrick says quietly. 

“I know.” 

“After everything with Rachel and coming out, I was so scared that I was going to lose them.” 

“I know. But you haven’t. They love you, Patrick. They’re not going anywhere, physically or emotionally.” 

“Did that hurt you to say?” Patrick asks with a wry smile. David rolls his eyes. “I get what you mean.” Patrick presses a kiss to David’s shoulder and David rubs his back, his lovely strong back that carries so much. 

"I feel like all week I've been pretending to be someone I'm not," he says quietly. A tear runs down his face and he lets it; he's just so fucking tired. "I'm exhausted trying to be the partner your parents will like. I'm not this nice person, Patrick." 

"I don't think I'll ever understand how you can think so little of yourself," Patrick says, and gives him a sad smile, sweet and small. 

"I contain multitudes." 

"For what it's worth, I think you're a very nice person and I love you a lot." 

"That's generous of you, especially after what you just heard me say." 

"It's the truth." Patrick's mouth turns down in one corner and he touches a finger to the back of David's hand. "How long have you been feeling like this?” 

“A few days, maybe. Your mom said something about wanting grandkids today and it was just... more than I could handle on top of everything else.” 

“She said what?!” 

“We were talking about your parents getting a dog and the dog you had growing up, Rocco, and then it was kind of implied that she wanted grandkids, and I know we talked about this but it’s _different_.” 

“David —” 

“What if your parents want you to change your mind? About kids, or about me?” 

“David,” Patrick says firmly. “I married you and I meant it. I don’t want kids. I want _you_.” He takes David’s left hand and holds it up in front of David’s face. “I put these rings on you and I meant it. My parents are not a part of our marriage. Our marriage is you and me and we decide what to do with our lives.” 

“You can’t say that they don’t influence you.” 

“I mean, a little. But I’m a grown man, David.” 

“I just want our lives back,” David whispers. “I want you and me and our new home and you promised you’d make me happy here and I was so looking forward to that.” 

“David,” Patrick says, gutted. 

“But I know how that sounds and I don’t want to be selfish! I want to be a good husband and I want to like your parents. I can suck it up for a few more days, I can, I just. I might need a little bit of time away.” 

“God, David, I’m so sorry.” 

“No, I’m sorry. I thought I could be better,” he says, forcing the words out, bare and shivering for Patrick. “I wanted to deserve you.” 

“What?” 

“I know I’m too much sometimes. I need too much. And I tried to not. I tried to be better, for you.” 

“David, no, you don’t need to — to be less. Please, baby, don’t — you —” Patrick shakes his head, his forehead furrowed and eyes big and sad and David doesn’t know what to say. 

He twists his hands in his lap until Patrick clasps them between his warm palms and blinks tears out of his eyes. 

“You’re perfect,” Patrick says firmly, brooking no argument, and David knows he's wrong but loves him for saying it. 

“Say that again, please?” 

“You are perfect.” Patrick places gentle kisses on his mouth, his cheek, his neck. “David, you don’t need to change who you are to be the husband I deserve. Please don’t try. You’re already _so_ much more than that.” 

“Mm, keep going?” 

“I mean, it would be great if you would help me clean the floors at work once in a while.” 

“Not what I was looking for.” 

“You are perfect,” Patrick says softly, watery, and David feels his own eyes well with tears. “I’m so unbelievably fucking happy to be married to you, do you know that? It’s like a dream come true, David.” 

“Okay, that’s good enough.” 

“Good enough?” 

“You’re going to make me cry again and I’ll get puffy.” 

Patrick drops a kiss under David’s eye and murmurs, “Just as long as you’re aware of how much I love you.” 

“I’m getting the idea,” David says, smiling uncontrollably; it’s been two years since Patrick first said it and it shouldn’t hit him as hard as it does, but just knowing that Patrick, with his big beautiful heart, loves David with all of it, is overwhelming sometimes. 

But Patrick says it every time so definitively and without question like it’s a fact of the universe, true and a little mysterious like quantum physics: they’re made of particles of energy recycled through time and space, the same stars that mesmerized their ancestors thousands of years ago, and Patrick loves David down to the quarks. He looks down at his rings, the gold matching bands that Patrick picked out for him and slid onto his fingers, and he knows. 

“Is that everything that’s been bothering you?” 

“Mostly.” David frowns. “But I won’t have freshly-baked bread waiting for you when you get home from work.” 

“Who asked you to? Also, we get home from work at the same time, literally in the same car. How would you even manage that?” 

“Your mom may have implied that I should learn.” 

“Oh my god.” 

“I’m just never going to be a baker, Patrick, I just — I can’t, I don’t want to.” 

“David.” Patrick looks him in the eyes and tension drains from David’s shoulders in the warmth of his brown eyes. “Baby. I will never expect you to bake things for me.” 

“Okay.” It’s more of a relief to hear than he thought it would be; maybe it had been taking up more room in his head than he’d thought. “Good.” 

“I’m so sorry she said that. She, um, used to bake a lot with Rachel. It’s kind of how she shows love, by feeding people. I’ll talk to her.” 

“No, please don’t. I mean, as long as she’s not expecting me to be the heteronormative wife in this marriage. I don’t want to cause a whole big thing if she just wants to, um, spend time together, or whatever.” 

“I’ll talk to her but I won’t tell her you told me. How’s that?” 

“Fine,” David says reluctantly. 

“Also, the kids thing. She _knows_ where we are on that but I’ll remind her. Anything else you want to bring up?” 

“Is there anything you want to bring up?” David asks, well aware that he’s been doing ninety-five percent of the complaining tonight, and feeling like he should at least attempt to even things out. 

“One thing,” Patrick says, and David’s nerves would tick up but Patrick’s stroking his back and David trusts him. God, what a thing, to trust someone so completely. “Please tell me these things in the future instead of trying to repress them? I don’t want things to —” 

“Don’t say ‘fester.’” 

“Fester,” Patrick finishes. 

David drops his head back and groans. “I hate that word! You know I hate that word!” 

“What, ‘fester?’” 

“You are such a dick,” David says, grinning despite himself. Patrick smiles back and maybe his smile isn’t just like his mom’s; there’s something there that’s wholly his own, just David’s husband with a pleased smirk knowing that he can rile David up whenever he wants. 

“You married me,” Patrick reminds him. “On purpose.” 

“Mm, I did. And I know your parents are part of the package, and I love them because you love them and they helped make you who you are. But it's been a _week_ and don’t you want to have cliched newlywed sex on our kitchen table?” 

“David!” 

“What?!” 

“Don’t bring up sex while we’re talking about my parents!” 

“Your mother literally just walked in on us having sex.” 

“God.” Patrick pinches the bridge of his nose. “She really did.” 

“Mhm. We were about to have some —” he grimaces — “ _monthiversary_ sex, and she cockblocked us. I keep thinking about how Jake made us that wonderfully sturdy kitchen table, probably knowing that you were going to fuck me on it, and it’s just sitting there waiting for us to put it to its intended use.” 

“Oh, is that its intended use?” 

David eyes his husband and recognizes the glint in his eye. 

“Unless he was picturing _me_ fucking _you_ on it as he was sanding it down.” Patrick’s eyes widen minutely and David knows he’s got him. “He’d run his hands over the smoothed wood to make sure there were no splinters for your bare back, for when I take my time fingering you open. Look at your skin tone; he must know that you’re the type to flush all the way down while you’re begging for my cock.” 

“Do you think he imagined that?” Patrick asks, his consonants going loose like they often do when he’s getting too turned on to focus. 

“Mm, I’m sure he did,” David says, and nudges Patrick into a kiss. “He probably got off to it, imagining me fucking you open on his table until you were begging me to let you come.” 

“I love you so fucking much,” Patrick murmurs against his mouth, his familiar hands cradling David’s face. 

“Love of my life,” David whispers, his fingers grabbing desperately at the back of Patrick’s shirt. 

He’d thought on their wedding day that that was the height of how much he could love another person, but he was wrong. He loves him more now, a desperate needing love intensified and broadened with the comfort and safety of knowing that Patrick feels the same way; that Patrick, his wonderful and thoughtful and sexy and caring and funny and smart and hyper-competent and _beautiful_ husband, knows the worst parts of him and loves him still. 

God, marriage. David Rose, married man. 

“You’re not really going to Stevie’s, are you?” Patrick asks, his thumb brushing across David’s cheek. 

“It’s my four-month anniversary and I want to get fucked by my husband,” David says, tugging Patrick’s shirt up to splay his fingers across the warm skin of his back. 

“Stevie can’t offer you that.” 

“The first part, sure, but the ‘husband’ title is already taken.” 

Patrick flashes a smile and swings his leg across David’s lap, straddling him, his hardening cock pressing insistently against David’s stomach as he tilts David’s face up to kiss him. 

“Please shut up about Stevie right now.” 

David grins and lets Patrick kiss him again, opening his mouth for Patrick’s tongue, his hands cupping the perfect swell of Patrick’s ass. 

Patrick’s teeth tug at David’s lower lip and his hips start rolling down on David’s cock and David, helpless, whimpers. 

“Happy four months, baby,” Patrick murmurs. 

“Maybe in four more months your parents will finally go home,” David teases breathlessly, then has a split second of panic that that’s too much, too soon, but Patrick huffs a laugh and presses their foreheads together. 

“I will talk to them again tomorrow. They’re going home.” 

“Are you sure? The last thing I wanted was to pressure you —” 

Patrick kisses him, effectively shutting him up. It could be annoying, but Patrick is the best person who’s ever kissed David and also David would really like to put his mouth on his cock sometime soon, so he lets it go. 

“I am very sure. My husband has made me some very specific promises about our kitchen table that he can’t carry through with them here.” 

“Well, if that’s all it took….” 

"Also, and more importantly, I love you an embarrassing amount and I want you to be happy, David." 

"Well," David says, breathless. Patrick kisses him again, his thumb brushing against the sensitive skin under David's ear. "I want you to be happy, too." 

"You make me so happy," Patrick says thickly. "I am so happy with you, David." 

David leans up to kiss him, soft and meant, the rings on his fingers glinting in Patrick's hair, Patrick's thick thighs hugging his hips. His phone buzzes and he reluctantly pulls away from Patrick's lips with a wet suck, holding onto Patrick’s hip with one hand to keep him there on his lap as he reaches for it with the other. 

Stevie  
  
**Today** 12:12 AM So are you coming or not?  
I want to go to bed and I’m not leaving the door unlocked  
I am coming in one sense  
GROSS  
Add another bottle of cabernet to my comp tab  
Stevie: So are you coming or not? I want to go to bed and I’m not leaving the door unlocked. David: I am coming in one sense.... Stevie: GROSS. Stevie: Add another bottle of cabernet to my comp tab.

David laughs and shows his phone to Patrick, who chuckles. 

“Worth it,” he says, and drops his phone back down on the bed to focus on his husband, laughing into the kiss. 

This time, no one interrupts as they press together in a heady blur of vulnerable skin, breathless moans, urgent _I love you_ s. 

In the morning David wakes like he usually does, with his head on Patrick’s shoulder and Patrick breathing gently underneath him, his nose thing making a soft hum with each breath that for some godforsaken reason David’s brain finds soothing like white noise. 

It’s later than Patrick generally likes to wake up and David smiles to himself, taking advantage of the opportunity to watch his husband sleep peacefully in the early-morning quiet of their cottage. 

Patrick’s eyelashes flutter with dreaming and his skin is slightly peachy in the warmth of their bedroom and his hair has stardust-gold strands in it in the sunlight and he’s so fucking beautiful David could cry. 

It’s not just that he’s beautiful, although he is: David’s dated beautiful people before, but he’s never been with someone who loves him so much, and so well. 

It feels like it goes beyond luck, finding Patrick, dating him and falling in love and marrying him; it must be something bigger, like fate, except David’s never really believed in fate. 

Whatever it is, he’s grateful to have this: the toasty heat of his body under the covers, the slightly-gross smell of him and them together on their sheets, the way Patrick flickers a faint eyebrow and smiles in his sleep when David brushes his fingers through the short hair curling around his ear. 

“Breakfast,” Patrick mumbles, leaning into David’s hand. David can’t tell if he’s awake or still mostly asleep, but he can take a hint. He presses a kiss to Patrick’s somewhat-greasy temple and gets out of bed, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. 

As he’s applying his daytime moisturizer with its preventative SPF, a memory of the night before comes crashing through his blissful morning haze: Mrs. Brewer in her long down robe walking in on them having sex. 

Oh, god. 

He gets dressed and Patrick’s still not awake, which isn’t totally unusual after a late night of especially enthusiastic sex but is really not going to work for David today. He shakes Patrick’s shoulder. 

“Mm.” 

“Patrick.” 

“D’vid?” 

“Patrick, get up.” 

“Wha’s goin’ on?” 

“Okay, I’m going to need you to open your eyes now, honey.” 

Patrick cracks his eyes open and glares. 

“Okay, fine. Dear. My love. My morning dove. Your mother, dearest heart, saw us having sex last night, and I am not going down there for breakfast by myself.” 

“Fuck.” 

“Yes. And I’m starving, so can you get dressed now, please?” 

“Fine,” Patrick says with a sigh. He pushes himself up to sit on the edge of the bed and stretches. David takes the opportunity to appreciate the play of the muscles across his bare back. “Are you watching me stretch?” Patrick asks, yawning. 

“Mm. My husband happens to be very sexy even when he’s being annoying, and I am enjoying the view.” 

“Your husband needs to brush his teeth.” 

“Ew.” 

As he waits for Patrick to brush and wash his face, his anxiety starts to ramp up again at having to face Patrick’s parents. _It’s fine_ , he tells himself, sitting on the edge of the bed with his legs jigging. Patrick’s going to be at his side, and Patrick wants him to be happy. It’s probably going to be awkward at first, but they’ll get through it. 

Maybe he can talk Patrick into going down alone and bringing a tray up to David. 

“Hey, Patrick?” 

“Yes, morning dove?” 

“Okay, regret that. What are the chances of me convincing you to bring me up a breakfast tray?” 

Patrick comes out of the bathroom, still dressed only in his boxer shorts, and gives him an unimpressed look, unswayed by David’s pleading expression. 

“Probably about the same as you not calling me ‘honey’ anymore.” 

“Sorry. Do you really not want me to? I’ll stop.” 

He watches Patrick go to the closet, the thick muscles in his thighs flexing and shifting with each step, and pull out a pair of jeans and a henley with a flicker of interest; chances are fifty-fifty he can convince Patrick to unbutton it a few inches. The day’s starting to look up. 

“I don’t know,” Patrick says finally as he threads his belt through the loops of his jeans. “You’ve been calling me that for like two years now. I think I’d miss it.” 

“Well, let me know. I want to be a good husband to you.” His voice wavers a little and Patrick notices, because of course he does. 

“You are,” Patrick says softly, and kisses him, his mouth minty fresh. “Are you ready, my darling, my dearest?” 

“Okay, that joke has played itself out.” 

“Oh, I’ve got more.” 

David can hear Mr. Brewer’s classical music playing on the sound system all the way from upstairs, just like every single day for the past week. He tries to place the composer from what he remembers of music theory in school in an effort to form orderly thoughts instead of the frazzled stress chaos in his head. There are harpsichords; it might be Bach. 

It doesn’t help as David steps into a nightmare. The Brewers have clearly been talking about them before he and Patrick enter the kitchen and fall silent as soon as they see Patrick, who fortunately seems to have accepted that he will always have to go first in this sort of situation. 

“Patrick!” Mrs. Brewer says too loudly. “David! Good morning.” 

“Morning, Mom. Dad.” 

Mr. Brewer nods but doesn’t look up from his newspaper. 

“So how did you boys sleep?” Mrs. Brewer asks, a smile pasted on her face, clearly trying very hard not to think about what she saw. She starts scooping scrambled eggs from the frying pan on the stove onto plates. 

“Fine,” David says with a stiff smile. 

“Good! That’s good. I’m glad you slept fine.” 

David widens his eyes at Patrick. Patrick sighs and places a hand on David’s back as he passes him to take a plate from his mother. 

“We slept fine, too. Didn’t we, Clint?” 

“Sure did,” Mr. Brewer says. He lifts his coffee cup with an awkward smile in some sort of toast before taking a very big gulp of it. It’s apparently too hot still, because he winces. 

“Maybe I’ll have a cup of coffee,” David says desperately, solely because then he can turn his back on the room while he gets a mug and pours. “Would you like one, Patrick?” 

“I’ll just have a sip of yours,” Patrick says, which makes sense because even decaf makes him too jittery to sit still for more than five minutes, but that cuts short David’s excuse to not be a part of this. 

“It’s nice that you share,” Mrs. Brewer says in a rush. 

David freezes and he hears someone choke behind him. 

“Oh my god, Mom,” Patrick says, sounding horrified. 

“Marcy.” 

“No! Oh — not — no! I didn’t — I meant coffee. Things.” 

David severely wishes he hadn’t left his phone upstairs, because he needs to text Stevie to get him out of this. Maybe he can bribe her to start a small fire at the store, he thinks wildly. He and Patrick would be called and they’d get to _leave_ and their life’s work would be ruined but if it gets them out of this conversation…. 

“David?” Patrick says, his voice pitched high. “Breakfast?” 

“Yep.” 

He joins them at the table and can’t even muster a polite smile, can’t look anyone in the face. This is quite literally hell on Earth. At least there’s coffee cake. 

“Well, I looked at the traffic this morning,” Mrs. Brewer says, her face still bright red. “I think if we leave before ten we should miss the worst of it.” 

“You’re leaving?” Patrick asks. David can’t read the tone of his voice. 

“I think it’s time,” she says. David tries to keep his face very still. “You two seem to have everything under control here, and Debbie from the stitch-n-bitch has been emailing me nonstop about the squares for our meeting on Friday so I should really get back to deal with that.” 

_Stitch-n-bitch_ , David mouths to himself. Patrick nudges him under the table. 

“We’ll miss you,” Patrick says. “It’s been great having you.” 

“I think we’ve overstayed our welcome,” Mr. Brewer says, looking meaningfully at Mrs. Brewer. “But thank you.” 

“Thank you for all your help moving us in,” David says, mostly because it feels like that's what he's supposed to say but he’s surprised to realize that he kind of means it. They really were a godsend during the move itself, even if they stayed about a million years too long after. “And for making sure that we’re settled.” 

“Of course, sweetheart. And you call if you need anything, okay? _Anything_.” She looks at both of them, David too, when she says this, and the bitterness left in him softens. 

“Sure,” Patrick says. He squeezes her hand briefly and her smile turns watery. 

“My sweet boys. How lucky we are to have you both.” 

“You can get time off from the store, right?” Mr. Brewer asks, putting the paper down. “Both of you at once?” 

“I mean, maybe for a few days,” Patrick says, glancing at David as if to check with him. David shrugs. 

“We’d love to have you up at the lakehouse over the summer,” Mrs. Brewer says, beaming. 

“Oh, I don't know," David hedges. He's not exactly eager to repeat this experience. It is true, though, that their honeymoon, although slightly disappointing in its proximity to about a thousand wasted spring breakers, had reminded him just how much he missed lounging by bodies of water, and the Schitts’ above-ground pool does _not_ count. It also sounds slightly more promising than whatever pebble beach is advertised on Ray's website. 

“We’ll have to check the books to see if that’s doable this year,” Patrick says, still looking at David, and David knows what he’s really saying. 

“Maybe... we can make it work,” David says tentatively, answering his unasked question. He wants to have a good relationship with Patrick's parents. Maybe if things are different, it'll be easier: if they only stay for a few days; if Patrick can make sure that he’s not expected to bake or cook anything; if he’s not the one running around explaining how the appliances work; if he’s not the one hosting; if he and Patrick can leave when he needs to… then maybe. 

A beautiful smile blooms across Patrick’s face as he squeezes David’s arm. 

"We'll think about it," Patrick says, still looking at David like he hung the moon, which is really a lot before David's had a second cup of coffee. 

It’s kind of scary to think of how far he’d go for that smile on Patrick’s face, but now that they know better what each of them needs and know that they can talk it through, it doesn’t feel like he’s sacrificing much at all. Maybe this is what marriage is, Patrick's love strong and sturdy as the legs of their table under David's plate of Mrs. Brewer's coffee cake and eggs. 

The rest of the morning is lost to goodbyes, David and Patrick making sure that the Brewers have everything collected from around the house and packed, and the Brewers making sure that David and Patrick know where everything is that they brought with them or made or fixed. 

Mr. Brewer shows them where he put the can of WD-40 and gallon of Lysol under the bathroom sink and Mrs. Brewer shows them a stash of bread she left in the freezer for Patrick and several tupperware containers of the marble cheesecake brownies that David loves in the pantry. 

The stand mixer has been put away and the kitchen counters suddenly look a lot bigger and emptier without all of her paraphernalia. The guest room actually looks like a guest room, neat and tidy and cleared of their clothes and suitcases. The Brewers even strip the sheets off the bed and put them in the washing machine. 

The entire morning passes in a marathon of packing and David turns the idea of more time with the Brewers over and over in his head. Now that they're leaving, conversation with Mrs. Brewer feels lighter; he happily helps Mr. Brewer collect his cardigans from the drying rack. Finally, finally, they wave off Patrick’s parents' car and go back inside and the storm door closes behind David, the house echoing empty around them. 

Alone; finally, blissfully alone. 

Right there in the foyer Patrick slides his hands around David’s waist and David’s arms go over his shoulders, just like in their wedding dance, just like always. 

“So, the lakehouse, huh?” Patrick asks, smiling up at him. 

“It sounds nice.” 

“You sure you’re up for it? We don't have to go. Or we could say that we can only swing a long weekend; make sure to keep it short.” 

“Mm. I knew I married you for a reason. Just how big is this lakehouse where we will be spending a maximum of three days, sleeping in a bedroom with a lock on the door, where I will only be in the kitchen to eat and mix cocktails?” 

“Oh, it’s pretty big.” 

“Mm.” 

“There’s a hot tub.” 

“Mkay, I can see how you’d think that that’s an attraction but in actuality those are a breeding ground for bacteria.” 

“Noted. Is a pool acceptable?” 

“Is it chlorinated? Will there be small children in diapers?” 

“It is, and no.” 

“Then, yes.” 

“A pool and sun and a bedroom on the other side of the house and someone else making dinner every night and a lot more space than we have here and we can come back home when you hit your limit on family time.” 

“See, I could be amenable to that,” David says, trying and failing to pull back a smile. Patrick relaxing in a bathing suit, letting David apply sunscreen to his bare skin over and over, no stress about the store, maybe a mojito or two…. 

“Okay,” Patrick says, grinning. “Think about your parameters and I’ll look at the books and see when might be a good weekend to leave the store.” 

“Mm.” 

“Thank you, David.” 

“For what?” 

“For being you. For willingly considering spending time with my parents again. For marrying me. I know I got a late start but, David, I am going to make you so happy.” 

“I will hold you to that,” David says, softened by the emotion coloring his voice. Patrick leans up and gently kisses him. 

He holds Patrick close and lets Patrick sway him in place to no music, just the sound of the house settling. Their house. His and Patrick’s house, their home, their future, their love held under one roof. Their foundation is solid, their love already seeping into the architecture of their home, his and Patrick’s. 

David looks around at the beaming faces of everyone who loves them and feels his face crumple. 

“Oh, hey, you okay?” 

“Patrick. We’re home.” 

“We are.” 

“Oh my god.” 

The weight of it just hits him; this is their _home_. 

The one that Patrick had planned to buy just because David said it was nice; the one that David put in an offer on, or whatever, because it’s where they want to spend the next years of their lives together. 

It’s really theirs: the future that Patrick promised him when he knelt down on the top of that mountain, the one he promised again when he slid the wedding band onto David’s hand in front of their friends and family, the one they’ve started to make their own together with things from both their families and pasts. 

It’s a bigger promise, a bigger show of trust in their relationship than he could have imagined for himself before Schitt’s Creek, and Patrick wants it with him, all of him, exactly him. 

“Welcome home, baby,” Patrick murmurs, and pulls him into a kiss, with his gentle hands holding David close. It’s exquisite and more than he ever dreamed of having and he feels like a glass filled to the brim, ready to spill over. 

“I love you,” David whispers. 

“So much. I love you so much, David.” 

David sniffs and blinks but it’s too late; overwhelmed tears already fall from his eyes. 

“I think I promised you some 'welcome home' sex on the kitchen table?” he tries to joke. Patrick smiles and brushes his thumb across David’s cheek. 

“Maybe later, my love.” 

“You are so fucking annoying." 

Patrick hums happily and presses a kiss to the side of his neck. He holds Patrick close and sways with him in their foyer, listening to his gentle breath, feeling the brush of his eyelashes against David’s cheek, loving the miracle of the universe in his arms. 

It’s a quieter, more private first dance than at their wedding four months ago, but he cries just as much. Patrick hums the melody to the song they’d danced to, soft and tender in David’s ear. 


End file.
